The Point (14 page)

“You wouldn’t think so...”

“Then why have we been here for three days looking for him?”

“Just bad luck I suppose.” Dave bit off another chunk of his burger. He spoke with his mouth full. “There’s a bright side, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Fresh air, chips, ice cream. I haven’t had a wee break like this for years. It’s nice.”

“Nice?” Mad Mickey spat pieces of chewed-up chip as he shouted. “Fucking nice?”

A couple of passing old biddies gasped at the sudden outburst.

Dave swallowed again. “Aye. Nice.”

Mad Mickey plucked a spliff from out of his dreads. He lit it and sucked down a huge draw. He wheezed a little as he exhaled.

“Actually, it
is
nice. But don’t you get too relaxed. We’ve work to do.”

Scummy by Association

Brian got up off the sofa and laid a hand on Paul’s chest to stop his pacing. Rachel followed his lead and stood at his side, facing Paul. He thought she was worried him and Paul might kick off, but that wasn’t Brian’s style. Yes, his mind thrummed with bottled-up anger, but he wasn’t going to scuffle with Paul. He knew Paul would beat seven shades out of him if he tried. But he couldn’t continue to do nothing. To bite his lip. So he opened his mouth and just let the words flow.

“You know, I came here because you thought it would be a good idea, Paul. I had my doubts, but look how things turned out. I settled in nicely. Got a job, a girl, didn’t have to break into houses for money. It felt pretty good. But then you took me to the Chinese. And after that, you beat up Rachel’s ex. But I figured, that’s Paul. He’ll always be in trouble. I can rise above. But I was wrong about that. Of course, I can’t rise above.”

“Bro, time’s getting on.”

“I’m trying to make a point here, Paul.”

Paul threw his hands up, but restrained his tongue. Brian continued: “Thing is, bro, I’ll never be happy if I let you drag me down, will I? Brother or not, you’ll fuck
up my life. And I think you know it. You just don’t care enough to want to stop yourself.”

“I don’t care enough? Come on, wee bro. You’re breaking my heart...”

“No, Paul. Just stop it. You can’t talk me around this time. I’m staying here. It’s time for you to move on, not me.”

Rachel tugged at Brian’s sleeve. “Brian, as much as I agree with you, you can’t stay here right now. Paul’s right. They’ll use you to get to him.”

Brian felt himself sag. He’d taken a stand against Paul. Wrestled for control of his own life, and for nothing. It was out of reach.

“Come on,” Paul said. “We’ve wasted ages now. We need to move. Can we take your da’s car, Rachel?”

“No you cannot!” Rachel folded her arms and cocked her hips. “We could probably use our John’s though, couldn’t we?”

“What ‘we’ is this?” Brian asked. “Me, you and Paul?”

Rachel ignored the question and Brian felt as if control had moved another step out of his grasp.

“I think John’s going away for a while,” Rachel said. “He must have mentioned it to you, Paul. You two are as thick as thieves.”

“He might have mentioned something, aye.”

Rachel clapped her hands like a
maître d’
summoning the underlings. “Get your gear together, Brian. I’ll take Paul down the road and we can stop off at mine. I’ll put a bag together too. We’ll be out of here in about 20 minutes. Be ready, okay?”

Brian wanted to argue, try and offer even a little resistance just for the sake of pride. But he knew it would only be a waste of time. So, he zipped it and headed off to gather his shit together.

Pain in the Neck

O’Rourke slammed his palm down on the mahogany desk. Charlie jerked and whimpered. O’Rourke hauled himself out of his leather office chair, stalked across the room and unloaded a right cross into Charlie’s face. Owen, hardened thug or not, flinched as Charlie’s head snapped back. O’Rourke remained in front of Charlie until he could raise his beaten head again. He gurgled blood as O’Rourke cupped his chin in his hand.

“Paul’s let me down, Charlie,” O’Rourke said. “So, I’ll just take care of you myself. Nighty-night.”

O’Rourke grabbed Charlie’s head in his hands and twisted it to the right with a grunt. Charlie’s neck cracked. O’Rourke backed away and Charlie’s head lolled forward.

O’Rourke turned to Owen. “Go get Paul and bring him here. I should never have given that sneaky Belfast shite a chance.”

He went back to his desk and scribbled on a scrap of paper.

“That’s his address, okay?”

Owen nodded and left.

Where Can I Drop You?

Rachel turned right at the painted-on roundabout at the bottom of Duke Street. The Subaru’s engine grumbled. Invited her to feed it more juice. But she took it easy. She needed to buy a little time and figure out what to do about her passenger. Paul fiddled with the radio. Rachel slapped his hand away from the knobs and buttons.

Paul snapped his hand back. “Hey! No need for that.”

She was done with the pussyfooting. “Did you give John the gun?”

“How do you know about the gun?”

“Did you give it to him?”

“I didn’t force it on him. He asked me for the thing. It’s not my fault he got lifted.”

“And I suppose it’s not your fault that Brian’s the way he is?”

“What’s that supposed to mean? There’s nothing wrong with Brian.”

“There’s less wrong with him now, but he’s been your doormat for years.”

“Aye, says you who’s known him five minutes.” Paul tilted his head slightly, looked beyond Rachel and out the driver-side window. “SHITE!”

Rachel jerked in her seat. The Subaru swerved slightly. She righted their course as her heart vibrated.

“What?” she asked.

Paul pointed out the window. “Mad Mickey. Jesus, what’s he doing here?”

Rachel followed Paul’s line of sight and looked out her window. A crusty white hippy in green fatigues and a big gorilla-type in a suit loitered outside the Country Fried Chicken. They checked out passers-by in a less than subtle manner and generally looked menacing. Rachel felt a sly smile spread across her face. She pushed in the cigarette lighter.

“Why are you slowing down?” Paul asked. “They’ll see us.”

“No they won’t.”

She rapped her knuckles on the window.

Tinted.

Rachel stopped the car and reached into the backseat.

“What are you doing? Drive.”

She patted her hand along the leather seat then reached down into the foot well.
There
. Her hand wrapped around the cool steel of the steering wheel lock her daddy had bought but rarely used.

“Wait just a second,” Rachel said.

“For what?”

The cigarette lighter popped. Paul looked to it then Rachel; tried to figure things out. With her free hand, Rachel snatched the lighter from its socket and shoved it into the side of Paul’s neck. He screamed. She hefted the steering wheel lock. Working in the confined space, she butted him with a spear-like jab. His eyes rolled back and his neck went rubbery. Rachel reached across his lap and pulled the passenger door handle. She shoved him out onto the kerb then leant on the horn.

Across the street, the hippy and the big guy zeroed in on the source of the blaring noise. Rachel wound down her tinted window, waved at the two men and drove forward a few yards to reveal Paul as he struggled to get to his feet.

“There he is!” The hippy’s gravely voice was loud and excitable. “Come on!”

He sprinted towards Paul, closely followed by the big man in the suit. Rachel whooped as she sank her toes down on the pedal and peeled off down the street.

Unwelcome Guest

Brian dropped a bulging canvas bag on the living room floor. It thwacked off the laminate flooring and sent fluffy balls of dust skittering in all directions. He regarded the bag for a second, unimpressed. All his worldly possessions, jammed into such a small space.

Brian’s head snapped up at the sound of tyres screeching at the front of the house. He went to the window. A car had skidded to a halt and come to rest broad side at the mouth of Brian’s driveway. A burly skinhead clambered out of the car. He consulted a small piece of paper, squinted at the number on Brian’s door and ran towards the house. Brian gasped as the skinhead barrelled into the front door. The wooden doorframe creaked and cracked. Another thump and wood splintered. Brian ran to the kitchen.

Brian grappled with the back door handle. The door held solid.

“Where the fuck’s the key?”

He spotted it, hanging on a hook on the wall. Paul’s idea. Nobody’s more security conscious than a burglar. Brian lunged for it. Fumbled. Cursed as it fell. All the while the booming at the front door continued. Brian scooped up the keys. The front door gave. Bounced off the wall.

The skinhead stormed in.

He tramped through the living room and spotted Brian in the kitchen through the open dividing door. Brian looked to the knife block on the kitchen counter. Five good blades, only a little out of grasp. He reached out, could have had them drawn and ready. But he shook his head. He couldn’t
stab
somebody. No way. He was not a killer.

“O’Rourke wants to see Paul,” the skinhead said.

“You couldn’t have knocked?” Brian asked. “Phoned maybe?”

“O’Rourke is a serious man. He calls you once. After that, I arrive.” He rolled his big shiny head on his thick muscled neck. “So, where is he?”

“Out.”

The skinhead pulled back his jacket to reveal a chrome pistol in a shoulder holster.

“I hope your next answer’s a little better.” He let go of his jacket and it fell back into place. “When’s he back?”

“Soon.”

“That’s a little better.” He smiled at Brian. “You going to put the kettle on?”

Brian flicked on the already full kettle. The skinhead continued to smile and unnerve the hell out of Brian.

“What did he do wrong?” Brian asked, desperate to get the skinhead talking and wipe away his seemingly friendly grin.

“Not for me to say.”

Brian nodded. “Fair enough. Probably better I don’t know anyway. Milk and sugar?”

“Just milk.”

“Sweet enough, are you?”

“Fucking fruit, are you?”

And Brian felt a little bit better. You knew where you stood with an attitude like that.

The skinhead had stationed himself in front of the fridge. Brian went to gently nudge the guy aside. He slapped Brian’s arm away aggressively. The force of the slap twisted Brian at the waist and he threw out his other arm in search of a steadying force. His hand landed on the skinhead. Slipped inside his jacket. A pickpocket instinct took over and Brian snagged the skinhead’s pistol. He stepped back and raised the gun.